


Before the fall // Johnlock

by siriuslyems



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, POV John Watson, im not sure what to put here ??
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:14:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26213926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siriuslyems/pseuds/siriuslyems
Summary: Doctor - and retired soldier - John Watson spends his days in a London flat shared with his bizarre, although amusing, best friend Sherlock Holmes. Despite having told people countless times that it's not true, everybody seems to think they're a couple, and it gets on his nerves.Until one day, when he is flown to Italy with Sherlock to solve a quite puzzling case, he realises perhaps his protests are just a cover to hide his true feelings.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 7





	1. one- sherlock holmes and his excessive violin playing

**Author's Note:**

> 𝘲𝘶𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘴
> 
> "Sherlock, you know I've got no bloody clue what you're on about, so why bother even trying to explain?" -JW
> 
> "Believe it or not, Sherlock, but I'm perfectly capable of surviving without you," -JW
> 
> "I'm still not gay," -JW
> 
> "Baker Street needs you, John. I know you don't care, but it's true," -SH
> 
> "Oh, for God's sake, John, you drink five cups of tea a day. You can make another when we get back," -SH
> 
> "Didn't it ever occur to you that the reason I never let you see the manuscript is because the song might just be about you?" -SH
> 
> \-----
> 
> 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵
> 
> First Day Of My Life by Bright Eyes
> 
> Out of My League by Fitz and The Tantrums
> 
> Truly Madly Deeply by Savage Garden
> 
> I'll Never Break Your Heart by Backstreet Boys
> 
> Jealous by Labrinth
> 
> I Know You Care by Ellie Goulding
> 
> Us Against The World by Coldplay
> 
> arms by Christina Perri
> 
> Never Knew I Had a Heart (Till It Beat for You) by Karliene
> 
> I Don't Wanna Love Somebody Else by A Great Big World
> 
> Mr. Brightside by The Killers
> 
> To Build A Home by The Cinematic Orchestra
> 
> High Hopes by Kodaline
> 
> Saturn by Sleeping At Last
> 
> Sarah Smiles by Panic! At The Disco
> 
> Wish You Were Gay by Claud
> 
> Animal by Neon Trees
> 
> Train Wreck by James Arthur
> 
> Little Talks by Of Monsters and Men
> 
> Drive By by Train
> 
> \------
> 
> lowercase on chapter titles are purposeful  
> this is also on wattpad ((@sherlocklokipotter))

"𝘖𝘩, 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘎𝘰𝘥'𝘴 𝘴𝘢𝘬𝘦, 𝘑𝘰𝘩𝘯, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘧𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘤𝘶𝘱𝘴 𝘢 𝘥𝘢𝘺. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘦 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬,"

\-----

"Christ, Sherlock, are you ever going to get that?" John yelled from his bedroom, pulling his trousers up his waist and fastening them with a belt. The doorbell had been ringing for several minutes now, and the sounds of Sherlock Holmes' violin being played carried through 221B Baker Street. No response came from the detective, who apparently hadn't heard him. John thrusted the damp towel onto his made bed and clambered down the stairs, his ears ringing from the constant sound of the bell and Sherlock's obsessive violin playing.

"Can you stop that?" the detective called as John began to make his way down the next pair of stairs to open the front door.  
"Stop what?"  
"The door," he rolled his eyes as if it was obvious, clearly oblivious to the fact that it wasn't John making the noise.  
"Wha- you think it's me making that noise? Jesus, Sherlock, you're a bloody detecti-"  
"It's interrupting me, and I'm not interested. Female client, middle-aged, thinks her husband is cheating. Boring. Tell her to go away," he scoffed, still staring at the wall with several bullet holes on and idly plucking the strings of the instrument.

John reluctantly made his way down the stairs -- why Mrs Hudson hadn't bothered to get it already was passed him -- and to the familiar dark door, before opening it and being greeted by a middle aged woman.  
"Can I help?" he asked politely, his whole act planned out.  
"Yeah, is, um, Sherlock Holmes here?"

"I think you've got the wrong address," he replied, putting his best apologetic expression on to make the act more convincing. She furrowed her eyebrows at me whilst fiddling with the buttons on her jacket.  
"Yeah, but, you're Dr Watson, so he does live here," the woman looked suspiciously at him, and John's smile faltered.  
"Well, he's not here," he said grimly before shutting the door. The sound of London traffic became muffled, and he returned upstairs to have breakfast.

"Do you want a cuppa?" he called to Sherlock, filling the kettle with water from the tap and placing it on it's stand.  
"Sure,"

The continuous noise of what seemed to be an unfamiliar song relaxed him from the stress he felt of finding Sherlock a good enough case. He often found himself being pressured by the man to find a job interesting - and gruesome - enough to keep him occupied; when he didn't he was complained to for as long as he was around. The search for one, however, was as close to being complete as John was as close to going back to the war.

The violin continued as John brought the now-made tea to the living room and collapsed into his armchair, groaning as a knot in his back ached at the sudden movement. Sherlock didn't say a word, and didn't even give his requested cup of tea a second glance once he had noticed John. His eyeline, even so, kept to the doctor's face as he kept his melody consistent, but this wasn't unusual.

The blog had taken a new turn and John found he spent a surprisingly considerable amount of his time writing up cases - and an even greater surprise was the amount of people who tuned in to read it. He wrote about the brilliance of Sherlock's mind; the occasional times he was unable to solve a mystery; and, most importantly, the witty comments he made to Anderson's low IQ. The comments for each post had been filled with friends and family (family-wise it tended to only be his sister, Harry) either begging for more, complimenting Sherlock's intelligence or praising how good of a couple the two men made. John had to constantly try to convince them that their relationship was, in fact, entirely platonic and that he was not gay - it happened so often that he had completely memorized his response if anybody assumed they were romantically involved with each other.

Today, the blog had recieved a good amount of comments on the entry John posted the night before, and he took his opportunity to look through them with his steaming cup of tea as Sherlock continued to occupy himself in his violin.

Mike Stamford  
Glad your enjoying your time with Sherlock :-)

↪Sherlock Holmes  
You're. Not your.

Harry Watson  
How are you having so much fun without me?

↪John Watson

I wouldn't call it 'fun'

↪Sherlock Holmes  
Yes, well, it would be if didn't you sit there typing on your blog the entire time.

↪John Watson  
Admit it, you love reading about yourself on it.

↪Sherlock Holmes  
You make me sound soft.

Mrs Turner  
Did you boys have fun? xx

Mrs Turner  
Also it's me, Mrs Hudson. I'm on the computer next door xx

↪John Watson  
Why haven't you bought a computer yet?

Sally Donovan  
So freak didn't commit this murder? That was unexpected.

theimprobableone  
you two spend more of your time staring into each other's eyes than actually working on a case

↪John Watson  
Christ, if anybody is reading this, I'M NOT GAY!

↪Mrs Turner  
You're not fooling anyone, dear. Also it's Mrs Hudson xx

↪Sherlock Holmes  
Buy your own computer. And John, you really should stop staring at me whilst I work. It's distracting.

"Hey!" John abruptly said. Sherlock didn't even so much as glance up at him.  
"Hm?"  
"I don't stare at you while you work," he glared at him, lowering his laptop to be able to see him, and almost knocking over his tea in the process.  
"Well..." Sherlock shrugged, raising his eyebrows in a disbelieving manner, fiddling with his violin bow. John set his tea down on the coffee table next to him and closed his laptop.  
"Even if I did, it certainly isn't romantically," he spat, disgusted at the thought of it.  
"I wasn't saying it is," Sherlock seemed unfazed by the topic of conversation, but then again, he never seemed very bothered with anything unless it was somewhat related to murder.

"You were implying it," muttered John, staring down at his striped socks and twiddling his thumbs together. Sherlock simply went on with the same song he'd been playing all morning, and the sound of Mrs Hudson's vacuum came quietly from downstairs.

"Lestrade wants us to go over to Scotland Yard this afternoon. He said something about Italy," Sherlock informed him, placing his instrument down into its case and ruffling his unbrushed hair. John shifted uncomfortably in his chair at this, before clearing his throat to respond.  
"Well, er, when are we going?"  
"Now. If convenient. If not, we'll go anyway," he shrugged, putting his arms through the sleeves of his signature coat and lifting up the collar to cover up his alarmingly prominent cheekbones.  
"Right, well, let me finish my tea," John took a large sip and looked towards Sherlock's mug, which he saw was still completely full. He was used to this - Sherlock usually asked for tea and didn't drink it.  
"Oh, for God's sake, John, you drink five cups a day. You can make another when we get back," Sherlock whined, tying his shoelaces loosely.

John put his mug down again and stood up.  
"Fine," he said bitterly, making his way to his coat which hung on the door and slipping it on, along with his shoes. "Did Greg say anything else about what he wanted?"  
"Just something about Italy. However, judging by the papers on his desk, he wants us to go there to solve a case,"  
"He wants us to go to Italy?"  
"Yeah. It's just as well, I was running out of my biscuits," he pulled open the front door and strode out, John following closely behind him.  
"Can you not get biscuits in England?" John said sarcastically, watching Sherlock take two steps at a time down the stairs. Sherlock only kept quiet, leading the way outside 221B Baker Street and stopped on the side of the road to hail a cab that was just driving passed.

The two men climbed into the taxi and sat on each window seat, and John made sure their bodies weren't touching (he didn't like this - people would talk) before pulling his seatbelt around him and buckling himself in. Sherlock never bothered with the seatbelt, and usually just sat there unprotected - it was a miracle he hadn't broken his neck in a car crash yet.

Lestrade was waiting in his office for them, flicking through some files absent-mindedly. He looked quite relaxed for a Detective Inspector, but then again, he didn't always take his work seriously.  
"Ah, Sherlock, John. Thanks," he took his feet off of his desk and dropped the files onto his desk, pulling out another one from a small drawer and slapping it down noisily on the top, sliding it towards them. Sherlock instantly pushed it rudely to John, who opened it up and pulled the papers out.

"What's this?" he asked Lestrade, flicking through. Several words flashed at him as he did so: 'Italy', 'workers', 'poison','hundreds' were just four of the many he saw, and Sherlock appeared to have seen them too, based on his facial expression - however, John wasn't as good as deducing than he was.

"Hundreds of Italian workers were poisoned and you want us to go there to figure it out because they've got no idea what happened," Sherlock deduced, crossing his legs and taking his hands out of his pockets. John watched how his hand rested on each other, occasionally moving as he fiddled his thumbs, and noticed how he kept his nails short and clean. He never realised this before, but then again, he never - and still didn't - have a reason to.

"John," the familiar deep voice came from next to him. He looked up at Sherlock, and cleared his throat.  
"Yes?"  
"Are you going to come with me?" his face had a shread of hope on it, and John found himself unable to say no - Sherlock rarely looked hopeful, and he didn't want to hurt his apparently non-existent feelings.  
"Of course," he nodded, dreading the trip already.

John had never really enjoyed plane rides, and, although he'd never admit this to anybody, he was quite terrified of them. He had spent the plane ride from Afghanistan shaking uncontrollably (which didn't help his injury - no, it made it hurt quite a lot) rather than sucking it up and watching a movie to pass the time. He had never reacted that badly to a journey on a plane, and felt as though he was a wuss and didn't deserve to have worked in the military. As for the actual trip in Italy, he was somewhat looking forward to it - it would be nice to get out of England for once - and going with Sherlock had to be interesting.

When he looked over at Sherlock, he saw that his face now held a slight relief, and he almost smiled. Almost.

"What's the case?" John asked Greg, clearing his throat.  
"That doesn't matter, John. Let's go, we need to pack," Sherlock stood up, and John found himself standing up with him to leave.  
"Oh. Well, thanks Greg," John nodded at him, taking hold of the file to give to Sherlock, who had held out his hand to carry it (his coat had enough space to carry most of the parts of a human body - John knew this because he had tried it before. One of the feet had moved around as he walked and the toes were sticking out; naturally this made people worry and John had to pick up Sherlock from the police station two hours later).

"His name is Giles, John, don't be so rude," he scolded, zipping his coat back up after safely pocketing the file.  
"Actually, er, it's Greg," Greg confirmed, shuffling his feet on the floor in embarrassment, yet he also seemed to have slight disappointment in Sherkock.  
"It is? Since when?"

"Christ, Sherlock, you've got all sorts of random, useless knowledge tucked away in your mind palace and you don't even know your own friend's name," John scoffed in disbelief, pulling open the door to hold it open for him.  
"But- his name's Giles-" Sherlock protested as they left his office, frowning in confusion.  
"For the world's only consulting detective, you really are quite dim. Like, the solar system, for God's sake. You know how to diffuse a bomb but you think we all rotate around the moon," John chuckled, hardly wanting to believe Sherlock Holmes himself could be so silly.  
"Who gives a damn what orbits what?" he spat, stepping into an elevator with him. John simply laughed at how pathetic he was and stood against the back wall of the lift, keeping his distance from the detective. However, a large amount of people entered on the next floor, so the two were forced together - this resulted in a lot of groans of uncomfort and John having to remove his hand from the bottom of Sherlock's back after being squashed against the wall.

Sherlock didn't seem to be complaining, he just stood still and waited for them to get to the ground floor. After many 'excuse me's and 'sorry's, John was able to get out of the elevator and stood waiting for Sherlock, who rudely pushed through the small crowd of people. As usual, he hailed a cab, and the car journey home was close to silent.


	2. two- the 'enjoyable' journey to rome

_"You have no idea how many times I had to hide them from Mycroft when I was young,"_

_\-----_

The flight to Italy was just two days after John and Sherlock spoke to Greg about it, so the next few days were spent packing their suitcases for the week they'd be there.  
John spent a large amount of his time busying himself upstairs with prepping all items he may need on his trip. He went through his drawers and folded his clothes neatly to fit into his suitcase, he managed to fit his toiletries nicely into a small bag and made sure he had his laptop and phone charger so he could write up his blog and communicate with anybody he needed to.

Sherlock, on the other hand, spent his time laying on the sofa, violin in hand, and playing the same tune he had been for the last few days. John found it relaxing and nice at first, but eventually it grew repetitive and stuck in his head. The detective had written the entire song down on some manuscript, but whenever John tried to see the title and look at it in detail, Sherlock distracted him and made him forget about it for a while.

Sherlock hadn't packed whatsoever, despite the fact that it was he who pulled John out of Lestrade's office to do so, so John found he spent the time he wasn't packing his bags yelling at Sherlock to get a move on and prepare for Italy. The day before they left, John was almost entirely packed - other than a few essentials he would need to use before they left - and, as expected, his flatmate hadn't done anything to get ready.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock, we're leaving in eleven hours to go to bloody Italy for a week and you've not even started packing!" John stood towering - yes, towering, Sherlock was lying down on the sofa - over the man, with his suitcase in his hand and a rucksack on his back.  
"I've got plenty of time," he muttered into the sofa, rolling over to face away from John and yawning. He hadn't slept properly for ages; he played the song all night (or at least John thought so, he tended to fall asleep half an hour in so never was up late enough to here) and never seemed to get any rest during the day.

"You've not slept in days and we're about to solve what could be the hardest case we've ever solved," John hissed, running a sweating hand through his hair and sitting down in his armchair.  
"The case?" Sherlock flipped his body around again to look at the doctor.  
"Yes, the case we're going to Italy for," he said in disbelief. Sherlock really could be dim sometimes.  
"I already solved that," he rolled his eyes, before they shut heavily and he turned his back to John again.  
"You already- of course you did," John sighed, dropping his suitcase and backpack. "So we're not going to Italy?"

"Oh, we're still going. They don't know I've solved it. Easy, really. They worked in the post office, and someone spent their time intercepting the post and lining them with a very fine cyanide powder - enough to kill them when inhaled. The only thing I don't know is who and why, so I'll have to look at the evidence, but it should be easy," his voice was muffled by the sofa, and sounded groggy with weariness, but John was still in shock by the man's cleverness - no matter how long he had known him, it still was impressive.  
"That's amazing," he whispered.  
"Thank you for your input," he responded sarcastically, yawning wildly and curling into a ball.  
"So that's a no on the packing, then?"   
No response came from the detective, resulting in a scoff of disbelief from John before he stood up and placed his baggage by the door. He then made his way into Sherlock's room with a spare suitcase to pack for him. He hadn't realised this, but the man had a wide range of clothes - from summer to winter, smart to casual, dull colours to colourful. The man's coat covered it all up, so he never had a chance to notice what kind of clothes he actually wore - which also, he found, made it hard to Christmas shop for him.

He made sure to pack a variety - and when it came to the underwear he didn't take his time, he just grabbed what he could see and thrust them in (if people knew he was touching Sherlock Holmes' underwear, they really would talk) before packing a book, his phone charger and toiletries. And then they were both almost completely packed, ready to leave the next day to go on their almost three hour flight (John was not looking forward to being stuck in a metal tube over thirty thousand feet in the air for this length of time) and enjoy Rome - especially since the case had already almost been entirely solved. 

When he arrived back into the living room, Sherlock was lightly snoring on the sofa and in a position that didn't look comfortable at all. His neck was turned at an angle that John knew would hurt when he woke up, and one of his arms were tucked underneath his body. He sighed, knowing Sherlock would most likely complain all day tomorrow because of his neck pain, and he couldn't deal with that whilst flying through the air. He gently pulled Sherlock's arm out from behind his back and rested it on the couch, then propped his head up with a cushion and turned it so it wouldn't be uncomfortable the next day, before dragging the detective's packed suitcase to the small group of luggage by the front door and starting the kettle.

As he came back with a steaming cup of tea, he noticed the manuscript of Sherlock's original piece set near his violin case - finally, he could look at it without Sherlock stopping him! Glancing once at the sleeping figure on the couch, he stood up and took two large steps to the case, and reaching to take it. His fingers brushed the top, before he felt his body being lurched away and thrown onto the armchair. 

"Jesus, Sherlock!" he hissed, rubbing his now aching side and glaring at the groggy man. He had been asleep a moment ago, how did he-  
"Would you stop snooping for once and let me sleep without having to keep an eye on you?" he growled, neatly putting the manuscript into a drawer and locking it up with a key from his pocket.  
"I don't see what's so bad about that song, I just want to look," John protested, pouting. Sherlock paused for a moment before replying.  
"No,"  
"But-"  
"I said no," he scolded, as if John was his child and he was being disobedient - only half of that was true. John huffed and crossed his legs, glaring at Sherlock with stubborn eyes. The man sighed and lay back down, turning his back to the doctor and seemingly trying to sleep again. John didn't want to disturb him again, so he drained his cup of tea - scorching his throat in the process - and took his laptop upstairs to go to bed.

The next day started off well - Sherlock had packed the rest of his stuff (John only had to ask him once to do so) and the plane looked like it was to be on time. At eleven o' clock on the dot, Mrs Hudson called the two downstairs to wait for their taxi, which should be arriving in fifteen minutes. She struggled to compose herself as she saw them dragging their suitcases down - like they were moving out - but quickly recovered and gave them each a packet of biscuits.   
"You can eat these on the plane," she smiled, as John tucked them both into his backpack. He would give Sherlock his if he was behaving - this often worked, especially with ginger-nuts, and the detective behaved himself if he knew there were biscuits involved. "Now, something always goes wrong on holidays, so don't be surprised if your plane gets blown up," Mrs Hudson warned them, and Sherlock scoffed.  
"It's not a holiday, Mrs Hudson, it's a case,"   
"Yes, well, a case you've already solved," she muttered. The doorbell rang, and Mrs Hudson jumped up. "That'll be the taxi," 

John glanced at Sherlock, who was eyeing a packet of ginger-nuts sticking out of the backpack with greedy eyes.  
"They're not for now," John sighed, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at Sherlock's childishness.   
"Just one?"  
"Later," he assured him, swinging his bag over his shoulder. Mrs Hudson came back in holding a package.   
"It was just the postman," she chuckled, thrusting the parcel onto the kitchen counter and sitting back down. The clock ticked silently - and soon the three found it was almost 11:30 and the taxi was a no-show. Their plane would be taking off in just under two hours, and while it wasn't a very long drive to the airport, they still needed plenty of time to get through security and what-not.   
"Mrs Hudson, can't you just drive us?" John turned to her, knowing she had a very fancy car she hardly ever used.  
"Absolutely not. I'm your landlady, I don't drive you to the airport," she glared.  
"But you're our friend-"  
"I'll just call the taxi company and ask them to send another," she pulled out her mobile phone from her pocket and dialled a number she read off of a piece of paper, then stepped outside. 

John glanced at Sherlock, who - to his surprise - had biscuit crumbs all over his chin and lips and a mouth filled with ginger-nuts, holding the empty packet.  
"You just ate the whole- how did you do that so quietly?" John asked in amazement, snatching the packet from him and putting it in the bin next to them.  
"You have no idea how many times I had to hide them from Mycroft when I was young," he said gloomily after swallowing his mouthful and wiping his chin. John scoffed in disbelief and moved his backpack away from Sherlock to save the last packet.  
"When it comes to ginger-nuts, you really are a child, Sherlock,"

"Boys? The taxi is almost here. The times were mixed up," called the landlady, and John stood up to leave. Sherlock led him outside, and after a long goodbye to Mrs Hudson, the taxi arrived and they were on their way to Heathrow.   
"That was the bump in the journey. The thing that went wrong," John said to Sherlock, who was staring out of the window dreamily. The man didn't respond - he hardly showed any signs of actually hearing John - and only kept his eye-line on the road next to them, his eyebrows furrowed in thought - or was it confusion? 

However, Sherlock often did this when he was in his mind palace, or as John preferred to say: 'out of it', so he let him be and pulled his phone out of his pocket. It was almost 12, and the plane took off at 1:30, so they really had to hurry if they wanted to actually get on it. He tapped his foot impatiently as he watched the houses fly past, and felt his leg shaking uncontrollably as the nerves kicked in. He watched the signs indicate that Heathrow grew closer and closer, and when they finally pulled up he sighed with relief. 12:10. That gave them just over an hour to get there. Hopefully Sherlock would listen.

Sherlock waited on the pavement as John brought out their luggage, and surprisingly volunteered to push the trolley they went on whilst John carried the backpacks - one on his back and the other in his hand. As usual, the line to check-in luggage was long and filled with impatient people with screaming babies, or annoying people who insisted on talking to people they didn't know and explain their entire life story. John found Sherlock snapping at them, and one young boy who recognised them - actually, he only recognised Sherlock - stepped away in tears after asking for a picture with the great detective and him having responded "piss off," (which wasn't the usual language he'd use - he was an oddly formal man). The two got several icy glares after that from his family, and John was relieved to escape and hand over the suitcases to have them loaded onto the plane. 

Next was security. The line wasn't as long - thank God, the boy and his family were right behind them again - and soon, after John was patted down from head to toe after the machine beeped at him (Sherlock found this very amusing), they were ready to take the shuttle bus to the gate and wait for the plane to be ready for boarding. So far, apart from the taxi being late, it had gone smoothly, and John was praying that he wasn't jinxing it by thinking so. Sherlock selfishly took up two chairs by spreading across them, and was reading a book he had packed himself - 'The Great Gatsby'. The plane was ready to be boarded in half an hour, so John set off to buy some food and drink for them to eat on the plane since they hadn't had lunch and it being such a short flight meant that they wouldn't be given a meal. 

"John?" he heard Sherlock's voice call as he was waiting in line to buy the food.  
"Hm?" he turned around.  
"The plane's boarding early,"  
"Oh, I'll be there in a- why did you leave the luggage on its own?" he noticed Sherlock wasn't carrying either of the backpacks, and his eyes widened as he realised.  
"Damn it. I'll wait for you at the gate," he assured, almost half-running out of the shop. 

Once the food had been paid for, John found himself jogging to their gate where Sherlock was arguing with the lady checking for the tickets.  
"He's just buying some food- you have to keep it open,"   
"We can't keep it open just because your husband is late. Either get on now, or don't get on at all,"  
"He won't be long-"  
"I'm not his husband," John sighed, pulling his plane ticket out of his pocket and thrusting it at the lady. Sherlock's eyes met his - they often did when people made this mistake - before he also showed her his plane ticket and she reluctantly let them on.  
"Have a good flight," she sighed.  
"Someone's in need of a holiday," Sherlock said to John as they walked past, and he had to stifle a laugh at her disgruntled expression out of fear she would drag them back and make them miss the flight.

Their seats were paid for by Mycroft, who had offered first class seats - Sherlock accepted them, however, John didn't care where they sat (he'd have rather not been on a plane at all) - and they made there way to their allocated seats. Luckily for John, who didn't want to be sitting near a sweaty business man, he was next to Sherlock and could easily talk to him if he needed anything (which he wouldn't). The detective had made himself comfortable in his chair, taking advantage of the reclining chairs and foot rest the people in economy didn't have, and was already pestering John for ginger-nuts, to which he responded with a harsh no after earlier's events.

As the plane started to drive forwards, John found himself gripping the edge of the seat and closing his eyes, trying to calm himself down as they gathered speed.   
"John?" a loud voice came from beside him.  
"Mhm?" he groaned, his eyes still shut - if this was about ginger-nuts, he can have them all.   
"Are you alright?"  
"Oh, yeah, I'm wonderful," he tried to smile, but was unable to.  
"You don't like planes," it wasn't a question.  
"Oh, that. No, not really. A metal tube over thirty thousand feet in the air...not really my thing," he chuckled sarcastically, exhaling through his mouth. Sherlock seemed unsure of what to do, and stayed silent for a moment.  
"You should've told me. I would've gotten closer seats," (first class, rather than having seats in rows, had them separate with an aisle in between each chair).  
"How would've that helped? Either way I'm stuck in a plane,"   
"It probably would've been better with someone that you knew next to you," he shrugged.

John sighed before opening his eyes to look out the window. They were clearly about to take off, and he felt his insides squirm as they came closer and closer to the end of the runway. And then the dreaded moment came where the plane lifted off of the ground, and he felt as if he was going to be sick from the fear he felt. He hated being scared of something so simple, but it really wasn't.

He swallowed his feelings, and busied himself in finding a movie to watch. He could tell Sherlock was still looking, so looked back to confirm he was alright.  
"I'm fine," he lied, plugging his headphones in and deciding he wasn't going to talk to him anymore - mainly out of fear of opening his mouth and throwing up. However, he instead found himself drifting off to sleep - which was weird, as he always had trouble sleeping on planes.  
  
"John? We're here," Sherlock's voice came from beside him, his rough hand shaking him awake. John peeled open his eyes and noticed the plane was empty, apart from them and a few flight attendants cleaning up.   
"Oh," he unbuckled his seat belt and stood up, waiting for Sherlock to get his luggage from the overhead compartments because he couldn't reach, and they made their way off out of the hell hole.


End file.
